for the love of a city
by radialarch
Summary: London is possessive; Sherlock's just frustrated. / Sherlock/various people, but primarily Sherlock/London. One-shot.


**Title**: for the love of a city  
**Pairing**: Sherlock/basically everyone  
**Rating**: M  
**Warnings**: some implied drug use, spanking, dubcon-ish gunplay (not all at the same time)  
**Spoilers**: written pre-S3  
**Wordcount**: 2321  
**Summary**: London is possessive; Sherlock's just frustrated.

**A/N**: This was written for peevee, and honestly a more accurate summary is "five times London cockblocked Sherlock Holmes and one time it didn't."

* * *

There are certain persons whose stories grow past the boundary of their skin – whose names are never quite forgotten – who leave impressions of themselves everywhere they go. And people call that History, but London calls it Love.

**i.**

Victor doesn't expect to see Sherlock standing at his door when he looks up. "I thought you were busy this afternoon," he says. "That thing at Scotland Yard."

"Mmm, I've finished," Sherlock waves off, stalking into the room. "It was ludicrously simple." Then he tugs Victor toward him, kisses him hot and frantic.

"Hello, then," Victor breathes, reaching up to brush at the collar of Sherlock's shirt. "Welcome back."

"Too much talking," Sherlock says imperiously, pushing him backwards onto the bed. He clambers up, settling across Victor's lap, and then he's pressing quick, fluttering kisses to the line of Victor's jaw.

Victor lets his head tip back, his hands creeping down to curl around Sherlock's belt loops. Sherlock licks at his throat and a fizz of pleasure runs down his spine.

"C'mere, you," he pleads, tugging him upward, until Sherlock's mouth is back on his, hot and wet. He can feel Sherlock nimbly undoing his buttons, his hands trailing heat against his skin; his breath is coming in quick pants and he nips at Victor's lower lip as he rocks against his hip, obviously hard.

Faintly, in the distance, Big Ben starts tolling.

"God, is that the time?" Victor shoots up. "I've got class."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock sighs, but Victor's already wiggling out of his grasp.

"No, I can't—" he waves his hands helplessly, "I've already missed too much." As he talks he's fastening up buttons, gathering his books. "Encouraged by you, I might add."

Sherlock at least has the grace to look apologetic. Victor glares at him, then relents and drops a kiss onto his cheek before rushing out; the last thing he sees is Sherlock, boneless and dishevelled on top of the sheets.

**ii.**

Sherlock's slumped against his door when Raz climbs up the stairs to his flat.

"If it isn't Sherlock Holmes," Raz says, taking a long drag on his cigarette, then splutters when Sherlock snatches it out of his hand.

Sherlock inhales like a drowning man and drops the cig to the ground.

"Oi, that was mine," Raz protests.

"Boring." Sherlock grinds it out underfoot and leans forward, predatory, grasping at Raz's shoulders. "Let me in."

Raz stares at his fever-bright eyes before Sherlock's mouth crashes into his; there's the taste of smoke and teeth catching at his lips, and when Raz pulls away to breathe Sherlock makes a low, disappointed noise in his throat.

"All right," Raz says thoughtfully, unlocking the door. "But no fucking."

"What, then?" Sherlock demands, even as he's crowding inside.

"Something better," Raz says. He drops his paints on a chair and looks around for supplies. "Get undressed."

When Raz looks back Sherlock's naked on his sofa without a trace of self-consciousness, slowly palming his half-hard cock. He huffs out a laugh even as Sherlock looks up lazily at him.

"Not today," he says, spreading newspaper on the floor. "Lie down on your front, will you?"

Sherlock hums an assent and slides down onto the floor, fluid, like some kind of performance. Raz looks at him for moment, very pale under the light, before straddling Sherlock's legs.

He sets the jar of ink beside him and picks up a brush. "India ink," Sherlock rasps. He's looking back over his shoulder, half-lifted from the ground.

"Shh," Raz says, putting a hand on Sherlock's quivering back. "Stay still."

He waits for Sherlock to sink back down before dipping the brush and touching it to the creamy expanse of skin. His other hand's still on Sherlock, and he can feel Sherlock tensing up, letting out a small gasp; he rubs Sherlock's side in a slow, steady motion as he draws a bold line along Sherlock's spine.

He lets himself get drawn into the scent of ink and the weight of the brush, and the warmth of Sherlock underneath. Vaguely, he's aware of Sherlock muttering softly, but as he layers strokes on top of each other Sherlock's words slowly even out into shallow breaths.

"There we go," Raz says at last, feeling as if he's rising from a dream. He rests an inky hand on Sherlock's nape as he slides off Sherlock's body.

"The Underground," Sherlock murmurs, his eyes half-lidded, and his voice has lost its frantic tinge. "You drew the London Underground."

"Yeah, well, it seemed like a good choice for you." Raz shrugs, stretching out stiff joints with a wince. "You can get dressed now."

Sherlock stares speculatively at him as he slowly does up the buttons of his shirt. Raz looks away and lights another cigarette.

**iii.**

There's a crime scene, a body on the floor, forensics gathering evidence in latex-gloved hands; Sherlock's already come and gone, swept through with an impatient gesture and rapid-fire words.

Greg wishes he could have as much confidence as Sherlock – hell, have as much confidence _in_ Sherlock, even.

They've nearly finished cleaning up when the text comes. _Left pocket. -S_

Greg checks the pocket and finds his handcuffs missing. "Dammit, Sherlock," he growls, sets a hand over his eyes.

At Montague Street Sherlock's door is propped open; Greg calls Sherlock an idiot, but softly, under his breath, and as he's pulling the door shut there's a shout from the bedroom. Of course.

Sherlock's sprawled naked on top of his duvet, one hand cuffed to the bedpost. "About time," he says, almost petulant.

Greg's honest enough with himself to admit that he stares quite a bit longer than necessary, and when he looks away to mutter, "Cover yourself up, will you?" his voice is rather hoarse.

For a moment Greg hears nothing, and then there's the rustle of the sheets. "Your virtue is safe," Sherlock says, sardonic. "You may turn around."

Sherlock's pulled a sheet across his middle, leaving his legs and torso still bare, but Greg figures that's the best he's going to get. "Thank you," he says, trying to not focus too much on the fact that Sherlock's cock is still clearly defined against the material.

"Is it an issue of morality?" Sherlock asks, sounding bored and contemptuous all at once.

"Well, yes," Greg splutters. "First of all, you know I'm married."

"Your wife—"

"And second," Greg continues more loudly, because he has his suspicions but he'd like to convince himself that he doesn't for a while longer, "you're a consultant for us."

"There's no formalised power structure between us," Sherlock says. He sits up, cuff tugging at his arm, and Greg can see a clearly defined line of red around his wrist. _Christ. _

"Be that as it may, I'm the only DI around who's willing to give you cases. D'you want it going around that you slept with me for that?"

"What if I am?" Sherlock asks, face innocent, and Greg nearly chokes on his tongue.

"Then you _definitely_ don't want that going around," he manages to say. "Now c'mon, I'd like my cuffs back."

Sherlock just looks at him, the set of his jaw defiant.

"Look," Greg says, gingerly settling down at the edge of Sherlock's bed. "You're a damn good consultant, all right? And given the circumstances, I'd like to have you here doing...what you do than anywhere else."

Finally, Sherlock grimaces. "I suspected it might not work," he says, sounding extremely put upon. He fishes a paper clip from the bedside table to pick the lock – _naturally_ – and sits up with a sigh. The sheet's slipping off a narrow hipbone; Greg tries his best not to focus on that as he pockets his cuffs.

"Thank you," he says, rubbing his face and standing up. "Oh, and you know," he adds, "you could always just go down to a pub. Pick up a bloke like a normal person."

Sherlock gives a disdainful huff. Greg shakes his head and leaves.

**iv.**

They're in a hotel room in Karachi. Irene's perched on the bed, fingers pressing into the sheets; Sherlock's pacing by the window, has been for the last hour.

"Could you stop that?" Irene says eventually. "It's done now. We're safe."

When Sherlock looks at her his eyes are unfocused. "I—" he starts, shaking his head, "I can't—I need—"

And she's seen that look before, on clients who come to her buzzing until she takes them down, takes them _apart_. So she straightens up and looks hard at Sherlock and says, "Come here," firm.

Sherlock stands still, unresponsive for a moment, long enough for Irene to worry that she's read him all wrong. But then he blinks and steps forward, eyes drooping closed, and all she has to do is pat her thigh for him to arrange himself over her lap obediently.

His breath hitches as she pushes down his trousers and pants; she slides her hand across pale skin and looks thoughtfully down at him.

"Just tell me when to stop," she tells him, almost kindly.

"Get on with it," Sherlock snaps, so tense she can nearly feel him vibrating. She smiles slowly, lets herself stroke the quivering expanse between his shoulder blades before she raises her hand.

The first slap makes Sherlock let out a shuddery breath; after the second he makes a small, needy sound; and when he finally breaths out "Stop," almost reluctantly, he's loose-limbed underneath her, skin very prettily pink, and Irene's lost count.

Sherlock turns his head to look at her, eyes glazed and a questioning expression on his face.

"Sorry, love," she says, tucking a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear. "I've got someone waiting for me back in London – and you might, too."

Sherlock heaves a disappointed sigh; Irene laughs and waves him off to a shower.

**v.**

Jim plans his arrest quite carefully. There are loose ends to be tied up, half-truths to be planted, and, most importantly, some Holmeses to bait.

When he's finished with his preparations, he sits back and wonders if Sherlock will be the one to find him. If he'll be bold enough to come alone. (But surely the elder Holmes wouldn't allow that, would he?)

To Jim's delight, Sherlock walks into his office with no-one else in sight. Jim flattens himself behind the door, grins at the slow turn of Sherlock's head.

"Hello, Sherlock," he says, pressing his pistol against Sherlock's nape.

"Jim," Sherlock says pleasantly, though his breath hitches briefly, beautifully, and he goes very still.

"It's dangerous to finger loaded firearms in your pocket." Jim eyes the bend of Sherlock's elbow. "Why don't you let me take care of that?"

Sherlock lifts the gun out of his pocket, slowly, and holds it out behind him; Jim strokes Sherlock's whitened knuckles and tosses it carelessly aside.

"Now, what am I going to do with you?" Jim muses, idly running the pistol along the line of Sherlock's jaw.

"Well, I certainly hope it's more than just talk," Sherlock says, sounding bored.

"Absolutely, darling." Jim's already half-hard as he presses himself flush along Sherlock's back. He bites at Sherlock's earlobe and watches it go pink.

"Rather unimaginative, don't you think?" Sherlock asks, but his voice has pitched upwards and he doesn't pull away.

"Well, we don't have much time, do we?" Jim says, sliding a hand along Sherlock's waistband. "I assume members of the Metropolitan police are drawing near as we speak."

"Ten minutes," Sherlock admits with a flash of his teeth. "Didn't want you getting too confident."

Jim feigns shock as he slips a hand into Sherlock's pants. "Me? Never."

Sherlock makes a derisive noise, but goes gratifyingly silent as Jim wraps his fingers around his cock. Jim rests his chin on Sherlock's bony shoulder and admires the way Sherlock's skin goes pale under the barrel of his gun.

Tragically, the men, hard-eyed and suited, burst in earlier than expected. "James Moriarty," one of them starts gravely, watching Jim untangle himself from Sherlock and raise his hands up, "you're under arrest under charge of—"

"Don't bother, boys," Jim waves off. "You've got me, just point me in the right direction."

"_Mycroft_," Sherlock mutters, raspy and resentful amidst a sea of black. His lip is bitten red and he's still faintly flushed.

Jim lets out a sigh, only half-theatrical. "Another time, shall we?" he says, and blows Sherlock a kiss as he's led out the door.

* * *

Sometimes London takes-claims-becomes one of its own, and he may leave the city (_Afghanistan or Iraq_) but the city will never leave him (_couldn't bear to live anywhere else_).

So when John Watson returns home and meets Sherlock Holmes, it's no surprise he falls half in love at once; after all, London's been waiting for a very long time.

**vi.**

"Don't leave me behind like that," John says, leaving teeth marks along the curve of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock wriggles underneath him, but John's got Sherlock's wrists pinned to the mattress. "I...John..." he gasps out thickly.

"I turned the corner and couldn't see you," John bites out, and he's running his hand over Sherlock's face as if he's trying to memorize it. "I don't—you can't do that, _do you understand_."

"I always know where you are," Sherlock says, helpless, laying himself bare under John's gaze. John's trailing open-mouthed kisses down his torso, fingertips digging into his sides hard enough to bruise, and that's spectacular, that John's becoming a part of his geography.

"You're where I need you—John, _please_," and his voice cracks and his hip bucks upward, desperate.

"I know, I know," John says, soothing. His hand is firm when he tugs at both of their cocks and Sherlock shudders as he comes, his eyes fluttering closed.

"But I need to know, too," John says afterwards, a warm weight draped over Sherlock. "You."

"All right," Sherlock says, drowsy. He's tracing the outline of John's scar with a careful finger, Regent's Park in miniature. "Yes."


End file.
